los cuises esperan al costado del camino,
el ruido del motor los aleja, uno por uno,
los observo pero no sé qué están diciendo,
tal vez algo sobre los girasoles, el atardecer,
pienso que la belleza nunca valió la pena,
que esconden algo entre los pastos silvestres,
detrás de las espinas, dentro de sus huecos,
después de todo somos un poco como ellos,
cavamos vacíos con las palabras, salimos al sol,
y nos abrazamos porque no queda otra cosa,
porque los campos nos sorprenden de nuevo,
y en la huida escarbamos con nuestras uñas,
lejos de todo, como si hubiera algo que defender.
había un monstruo agazapado en cada rincón,
la furia en el aire, apacible, una mota de polvo,
la mesa tensada como un alambre de púas,
miré hacia atrás: estaba allí sentada, sin rostro,
quise apurar el caballo pero la llevaba a cuestas,
aferrada al cuello, clavándome las uñas, olvidada,
era difícil escapar en la noche sin piernas ni ojos,
dejar las flores a un costado, sembrar las espinas,
maldecir al sol en todas las lenguas, sentir la brisa,
proteger lo poco que quedaba entre las llamas,
volver a casa con la ropa destrozada, mordida,
mientras mamá se atusaba su barba larguísima,
sentada en el suelo, como un anciano venerable.
mirábamos las estrellas recostados en el césped,
hablábamos sobre la luz y el tiempo se mecía,
a veces los pudúes nos olfateaban desde lejos,
nos observaban con sus enormes ojos negros;
por aquel entonces papá comía tierra a puñados,
las cosas no andaban nada bien, las uñas sucias,
los dientes apretados, el pie apoyado en la pala,
los pudúes estaban por todos lados, inmóviles,
y yo trataba de encontrar respuestas en sus ojos,
sabíamos qué decir, a dónde dirigir las palabras,
papá pastaba plácidamente, nos miraba atónito,
pero no había más que eso, un agujero absurdo,
una madriguera donde las voces se deslucían.
hacía tres meses que estaba encerrado, mudo,
el abuelo se había robado un baño químico
y teníamos que sortear la manada de pudúes;
estaba haciendo un pozo con sus propias manos,
escribió una carta: sus dedos, decía, eran palabras;
papá no podía hacer nada, solo pastar en el jardín,
comer tierra, trabajar en casa hasta el anochecer,
recortarle la barba a mamá y mirar las estrellas;
si tuviera su propio pozo, sabía, podría acurrucarse,
respirar el aire húmedo, mordisquear sus raíces,
pero no tenía nada, ningún recoveco, ningún hueco;
a veces se trata solo de desenredarse los dedos,
de gritar con los ojos, a oscuras, decía en la carta.
voy por el camino polvoriento o entre los pastos,
el sol está bajando, los cuises me miran de lejos,
descubro por fin un hueco, un agujero imperfecto,
no sé quién lo habrá hecho ni quiero pensar en eso,
no hay ojos brillando en la oscuridad, no hay viento,
sonrío y observo largamente como si fuera un espejo,
miro hacia atrás: ella sigue allí, sin rostro, a cuestas,
hemos estado juntos mucho tiempo, en el olvido,
la tomo de los brazos y la arrojo al hueco dulcemente,
a fin de cuentas, pienso, solo se trata de palabras,
pruebo un poco de tierra y no tiene gusto a nada,
me siento en paz, vuelvo sobre mis pasos, a tientas,
un pudú me observa a los lejos, inmóvil, venerable.
[ENG - Translated with Deepl. The translation of poetry is very complex, therefore, in this case, it is not intended to have literary value, but only to serve as an orientation for reading.]
the cuises wait at the side of the road,
the noise of the engine drives them away, one by one,
I watch them but I don't know what they are saying,
maybe something about the sunflowers, the sunset,
I think the beauty was never worth it,
that they're hiding something among the wild grasses,
behind the thorns, inside their hollows,
after all we are a little like them,
we dig voids with words, we go out into the sun,
and we embrace each other because there is nothing else left,
because the fields surprise us again,
and in the flight we dig with our fingernails,
far from everything, as if there were something to defend.
there was a monster crouching in every corner,
the fury in the air, gentle, a speck of dust,
the table taut as barbed wire,
I looked back: she was sitting there, faceless,
I wanted to hurry the horse but I was carrying her on my back,
clinging to my neck, digging her nails into me, forgotten,
it was hard to escape in the night without legs or eyes,
to leave the flowers on the side, to sow the thorns,
to curse the sun in all tongues, to feel the breeze,
to protect what little was left in the flames,
to return home with shredded, chewed clothes,
while mom tied his very long beard,
sitting on the floor, like a venerable old man.
we looked at the stars, lying on the grass,
we would talk about the light and time would sway,
sometimes the pudu would sniff us from afar,
they watched us with their huge black eyes;
at that time dad ate dirt by the handful,
things were not going well at all, dirty fingernails,
teeth clenched, foot resting on the shovel,
the pudúes were all over the place, motionless,
and I was trying to find answers in their eyes,
we knew what to say, where to direct the words,
dad was grazing placidly, he was looking at us astonished,
but there was nothing more than that, an absurd hole,
a burrow where the voices were blurred.
he had been locked up for three months, mute,
grandfather had stolen a chemical bath
and we had to get around the herd of pudúes;
he was making a well with his own hands,
he wrote a letter: his fingers, he said, were words;
dad couldn't do anything, just graze in the garden,
eat dirt, work in the house until nightfall,
trim mom's beard and look at the stars;
if he had his own well, he knew, he could curl up,
breathe the damp air, nibble at his roots,
but he had nothing, no nook, no cranny, no hollow;
sometimes it's just a matter of untangling your fingers,
of screaming with your eyes, in the dark, it said in the letter.
I go along the dusty road or through the pastures,
the sun is going down, the cuises are looking at me from afar,
I discover at last a hole, an imperfect hole,
I don't know who made it and I don't want to think about it,
there are no eyes shining in the darkness, there is no wind,
I smile and watch for a long time as if it were a mirror,
I look back: she's still there, faceless, on my back,
we've been together for a long time, in oblivion,
I take her by the arms and throw her sweetly into the hollow,
after all, I think, it's only words,
I taste a bit of earth and it tastes like nothing,
I feel at peace, I retrace my steps, groping,
a pudu watches me in the distance, motionless, venerable.
La fotografía es de TimSagorski y tiene una licencia CC BY-SA.
The photograph is by TimSagorski and is licensed under CC BY-SA.
